the fighting temeraire

i'm prince rainiest the third. in a rinse-rain he kissed the word "tomorrow" and the number "11." his sorrow became dumber and leaden and fell away by pieces. until a day when she says "stop," keep going. it's the only way to stay sane these days; drops keep growing and plowing their way down my "please" face. they form a crown around my shoes, a smattering of "whatsamatter, kid?," a worn-up down that surrounds my dues, and splattering an "i don't matter" king. but i'm just prince rainiest the third. to evince pain he just demurred and turned his face away. no yearnings came today, he'll have to wait 'til tomorrow at eleven and borrow a mask, and a ring, and a throne, and some grace for a task where he'll sing for a bone and his place and the key to the royal coffer for he can't take his thoughts up off her. for a kiss he'll dismiss all of his manservants. he'll lean in with a grin and a face that's nervous and hope that she'll acquiesce to float and feel happiness.